s e n s e s
by FujimoriChikaru
Summary: They blind themselves in their meaningless affair, certain they don't need love, turn deaf to the traitorous voices that say otherwise, plug their noses to the stench of romance, train their pallet to taste only skin and sweat - but that doesn't numb them from feeling. She fumbles first, falls, and waits for him to hear, smell, taste, see her, feel for her. He already has. KaitoRin


**Hello, lovely readers!**

**So, I'd meant to post this a bit earlier in the day, but it's done, so, close enough.**

**As you might have guessed, this is a Kaito x Rin. I remember a long, long time ago when I was looking for something with these two I couldn't really find much, and thus resolved to contribute. Which I've just done. Two years later.**

**Hey, I still contributed, didn't I? (and with smut, too. lots of it. you're welcome.)**

**I'd like to take this moment to thank **Postquam est** for being such a dear and editing this for me. Thanks a bunch, Hun! **

**I'll have a poll up, and I'd love to see some votes, so maybe please after you lovelies hopefully enjoy your read?**

**I think that's about everything I have to say, so I'll just wrap this up.**

**Remember guys**:I _do not_ own Vocaloid

* * *

He meets her eyes across the living room, in the midst of the chaos the rest of their pseudo family creates.

She's already looking at him, eyes dark with lust and narrowed with promises of what she she'll do to him, what she'll let him do to her. The cruel curve of her smirk spells wicked intentions, and she doesn't waste a second to stand, stalk away with still-developing swinging hips – a taunt, a display, an offer.

An offer he's already taken many, many times.

The entire remainder of the room is occupied, distracted, so he hardly waits to follow, stalk her out.

When he reaches his room, it is tense with anticipation, excitement, lust.

There is no romance between them. They both know this.

He doesn't kiss her when he removes her clothes, or she his; he doesn't kiss her when he feels every inch of skin he can reach, or she of him; he doesn't kiss her when he finally begins to please her, or she him.

Kissing, he'd told her once, is something only lovers do.

What, she'd asked, are we, then?

He'd only looked at her, smiled, and replied, Why give ourselves a label? There's no use for it.

There is no romance between them.

But the passion no less intense or real.

* * *

He revels in her voice.

It's all he can hear, all he can play back in his head, as he pleasures her. He knows the sounds she makes, knows them all by heart, but long in coming is the day he could ever tire of hearing them.

They ring in his ears, her little noises, they ring in his ears and spur him, encourage him to go faster, harder, deeper – and he's not one to disappoint.

He's laying atop her now, and, he knows the noise she'll make – when he nips her sensitive neck, "mmph, aha-o-_oh_~"; when he licks at the swell of her small breasts, "hah, K-Kai-"; he knows the hissed breath she makes when he grabs hold of her hip, pulls it toward him, and pushes in deeper, knows the whimper she lets out while he sits himself up and pulls her up with him ending with her on his lap and him still in her; he knows the "oh"s and "ah"s and "_mmm_"s and "yes"s when she rocks her tiny hips and lifts and drops herself onto him at her own pace – before she can even process what he's doing to her.

He revels, in her low mumbles that string together when she's getting closer, revels in her daring moans when she feels that he's getting closer, too, in her low cry after he flips them over again and quickens their pace, and he revels in her muffled yelps as he hits her _there_ again and again and again, revels in her long groan when she finishes, in her soft, satisfied sigh when she feels him finish inside her. He revels in it all.

When he pulls out and lays himself next to her, he's only too familiar with the shifts of the comforter, the sheet, the extra-blanket he has out on the bed because he knows she gets cold at night, when she tries to make herself comfortable, and he doesn't mind it, then; instead he remembers how too-quiet the nights she doesn't sleep in his bed keep him awake and all he can do is toss and turn himself though he knows it gets him nowhere near his own realm of dreams.

He revels even in her deep, quiet breaths, the few disconnected words she mumbles in her sleep, the little snore she lets out, almost impossible to hear unless one was listening specifically for it, when she falls asleep.

He revels in all the sounds she makes, all the words she says – the words she doesn't say. He revels in it all.

He revels in her. But he doesn't love her.

* * *

She nods idly, "mm-hmm"s every few seconds, "huh"s at every expectant pause she catches, deaf to the words she only pretends to hear as she pulls a slice of the orange she's just finished peeling up to her lips, pauses to take in the scent of citrus, pops it in her mouth, bites and closes her eyes to enjoy the sharp tang on her tongue.

She frowns at the sharp rebuke she receives – the only whole sentence she's managed to catch through this one-sided conversation, but waits until she's swallowed to turn and narrow her eyes. "I was too listening!" She wasn't.

Len doesn't believe her, of course, because only he can tell when she lies, every time without fail – but he usually drops it instead of pushing like he's doing now.

"All I was trying to say is, we know plenty of guys closer to our age, and-" oh, it's _this _talk again.

"Len, really, it's nothing serious. He's like – an anime bishounen: fantasize and write all the fanfiction you want, but it's never gonna happen." Even as she straightens, a bit proud of how quickly she'd made up the comparison, she sees Len narrow his eyes, disbelieving, so she hopes, as she stuffs her mouth with another slice (it tastes bitter with her lie), that she sounds more convincing to him than herself, and that he isn't as good at sniffing out her lies as he claims (even though she already knows he is).

He sighs. "I just–relationships–I don't want you to end up rushing, or, or _forced_ into anything."

He's dropping it.

He knows.

"This coming from you," she shoves two whole slices into his mouth, already open to retort back, and she smiles, pleased, at his stretched lips (that ought to shut him up, finally), "when everyone – except Gakupo-nii, of course – knows what's going on between you and Gumi-_nee_." She throws him an unpeeled banana from the fruit bowl; an unspoken apology.

"You know," she starts casually, almost thoughtfully, "it's a good thing she only _looks_ taller than she actually is on camera, or the height difference between you two would be even more awkward than it already is."

Len, who's finally managed to painfully swallow down the fruit in his mouth, glares at her with his narrowed blue-green eyes and hot, flushed-pink cheeks. "I'm getting taller, too," he complains in his whiny, higher-pitched voice from his down-turned orange-smelling (and probably tasting, too, not that she's really _that_ interested to find out herself, but she kind of regrets not just stuffing banana in his mouth instead) lips that contrasts a bit with his natural balmy scent. Even as he sticks out his tongue and leaves the kitchen, tossing the banana between his hands with a _smack_ each time as it meets his palm (an unspoken forgiveness), she feels a wave of fraternal affection, of wimpy sister-love, so strong she almost can't breathe, almost can't hear the _thunk_ of his shoes (which he's not supposed to wear inside the house anyway) against the wooden floorboards of their house; so strong she can't hope to compare it to anything she's ever felt before.

(She wonders if this what her love for Kaito would feel like – but she would have to fall in love with him first, and she's not really _that_ interested in finding out herself)

* * *

He loves taking her in the bath: all the sounds he revels in reverberate right back to him from the walls painted an off-blue.

He's alone in the tub surrounded by candles, lit and scented, that border the unreasonably big tub at a reasonable distance, mindful of particularly large splashes. The lights are already turned off, the room already bathed in the artificial scents of lavender (for relaxation), rose (for the mood) and vanilla (his favorite ice cream flavor) when she walks in, smelling of sweat and the too-strong perfume she'd put on to try to cover it up. Long-since used to this routine, he manages to not gag on the putrid, falsely-advertised cherry blossom smell that's in truth more akin to old lady.

He doesn't have the heart to tell her–which he finds ironic, of course, considering he has no romantic affections for her.

In a few practiced motions, she's stripped before she even reaches the tub, where he's sitting with his legs stretched out, naked. She seems to pause – but not hesitate – for a beat before she swings a foot over the porcelain rim. He notes her shudder when her other leg and the rest of her body from the waist-down submerges under the water – hot enough to tinge their skin pink, just how she likes it – and how, as goosebumps pop up along her arms, her nipples stiffen under his fingers. He hears her muffled moan just as he removes one hand to grab at the bottles on the smooth tiles beside the tub.

As always, he starts with the body-wash.

He pours a generous amount in one hand and, with the other, clicks the top shut and lets it fall from his hands with a _plop!_ into the water. He rubs his hands together, and his fingers massage her shoulders, down her back, her arms, her sides before they return to her small breasts once more, all while she leans closer to him, her arms around his neck as she ruts against his already-stiff length, makes all the noises she knows he likes in his ear.

His hands move up and over her shoulders to her back when her pace quickens, when her moans and pants and yelps get louder. One hand continues down the middle of her back, parts the cheeks he finds there, teases the tiny pucker and delights in her resulting squirms and even louder cries; the other trails along the space between his leg and the tub until he finds what he's looking for, grabs it, lifts and upends it over her.

She leans back just enough to turn her head to him, and he can feel her glare even under her drooping-wet bangs. Tiny rivers of bath water wash the bubbles and foam down her body as it runs its course. He lets go of the plastic cup with the same carelessness he had the body wash, and it is then that a waft of citrus enters the fray of lavender, vanilla and rose. He can't help the idle thought that the body wash makes the room smell even better.

He turns his head to her ear and, lowly, he whispers, "we're nowhere near done."

He delights in her excited shiver.

He reaches over, again, to retrieve the last two bottles beside the tub and opens one–shampoo. He hears her wring out what water she can from her short hair, the click of the bottle he'd discarded. He works his fingers through her hair while she works the body wash under her arms, down her stomach and between her legs – the sighs and hums she lets out as she does so lets him know she wants him to run his hands over her again.

The smell of citrus is even stronger when he starts rinsing out her hair, her body again. Her knees inch closer to either side of him, pressed against the curve of porcelain and his hips; rather than pressed against, her sex is now atop his, just a few inches apart. She's trying even harder to muffle her sounds now, with his fingers mapping out her chest, and her nails are digging into his back, but he doesn't mind.

Their favorite part of foreplay is the painful wait, the heightened senses, just before the plunge.

The conditioner is next, and last. He uses more than her short hair requires and uses his short blunt nails to gently and purposely scratch her scalp just-right so her hips snap sporadically against him and her noises impossible to conceal behind her trembling lips, just to be an ass.

He rinses her hair again, and now all he can smell is bottled artificial citrus, sweet and just this side of tangy; her putrid perfume is washed away by pleasant-scented candles and even more pleasant body works. He removes her hands and nails from his back, replaces them atop his shoulders, repositions his own hands over her shoulders and pushes her slowly down until she's fully seated atop him and her resulting cry screams back at him twice off the wall before fading away. He licks his lips.

She's hot around him, and the burning water only serves to make her feel even more so. The noises she lets out – that he so enjoys hearing – as she moves is muted, almost lost to the fruity aroma that clings to her skin, her hair. His nose is pressed against the hollow of her throat, the junction between her neck and shoulder, and his mouth waters. Her pace is quick, but his is even quicker, and she's trying to keep up just as he's trying to slow down; he puts his hands on her hips and tries to steady them out.

His head lifts and now his nose is pressed against her dampening hair instead, now. He doesn't realize he's lifted his hand until his fingers thread through her short locks to keep her head steady; the other is already just above her tailbone to help angle her, to encourage her to go faster, to hold her wet and slippery body closer his own. Every sound she makes falls on deaf ears. The smell is overpowering, intoxicating. His breaths are coming faster and faster; he can't get enough air. He's lost in time, a time where all there is, is him and her and the orange-citrus that clings to her, so clearly defines her.

His breathing is still out of control when he finishes inside her. He's slumped against the inside of th tub, and when he finally catches his breath, the way she's slumped against him and is still breathing just a little too-hard tells him she's done, too.

She sits up the moment she catches her breath, then stands and carefully steps out of the tub. The others are bound to be back, soon, and she needs to get back to her room and he needs to wash off her scent before they can rouse suspicion. He doesn't watch but he can just-faintly hear the patter of her wet feet slapping against the tile and the door opening and closing; he's taking in the mixed smell of sex and citrus. As soon as she's gone he's fumbling for the cup in still-warm water and throwing the water out of it to put out the candles and keep in the smell of _them_; he's already glad there aren't too many candles to take care of. He doesn't mind the pitch-black darkness even though he knows he will when he trips over something later; for now he just takes in big gulps of air, and lowers his hands when he gets hard again.

* * *

She finds it at the eighth store.

In hindsight, she probably should've known – he's a simple man, and prefers to spend as little as possible for anything that's not ice cream, of _course_ he'd go to the farthest one within walking distance.

She puts the thought out of mind as she takes a second, deeper whiff to confirm that, yes, this is what she has been looking for the past hour and a half.

As much as she didn't care for the people that stared as they passed her by when she was going down the aisle opening and smelling everything (she was a lady on a mission then), she doesn't want to look weird buying only the items she's carrying now, so she casts her mind about on what else to get.

In the adjacent aisle, she finds something that works.

She's back to not caring how weird she looks when she takes a few and walks a _bit_ faster than her usual pace to the register. The cashier, a few years older than her, scans and tallies up the price with bored expression until catching sight of her, at which point the girl smiles a bit shyly – probably a fan. She smiles back, looks the girl over – cute for her age, pretty even, but hair too long for her taste, eyes too wide and not the right color, the peach tone a few shades too-dark – even as she pays and takes her bags with a nod and some kind of farewell not important enough to remember and tries to hurry her pace the second she steps out.

The house is empty, but it won't be for much longer.

She practically runs to the bathroom adjacent to only her room, slams shut and locks the door the moment she flicks on the switch. She turns on the hot water, lets the tub fill up as she sets down the plastic bag and strips. Nude, she removes her buyings from the store, drops the citrus-scented body works in the water, arranges the five vanilla-scented candles wherever she has room on the sink, on the floor by her tub, lights them carefully. She turns off the light, stops the hot water, and slowly, slowly she settles in.

She sighs, and she licks her lips; her skin in burning, searing, but goosebumps dot her arms and chest with her anticipation. She leans back, stretches out her legs comfortably, reaches for the three tubes she has, finds the body wash, and pours a generous amount into the water.

The candles have started to take effect; she can smell them, even with the overpowering orange-reminiscent aroma of the body wash, which has bubbled some on the surface of the water, from all the splashing she'd done. She'd rinsed and washed her hair with the shampoo and conditioner quickly, and now the mixed smell of the candles and body works fill the room, and she can't breathe in, or out, without taking in their mixed scent. It floods her nostrils, this smell, and when she releases a deep breath through her mouth she thinks she can smell it even then. When she skims her hands across her thighs she feels there are goosebumps there, too, and, already eager, she reaches the twixt of her thighs.

She's only a little embarrassed of the moans and whimpers she lets out – she's not all that loud, by herself, and this is really nothing compared to sex with Kaito. Noise is really only half the reason she made sure she'd have the house to herself, the other half being that she wanted no interruptions (if not someone yelling for her than just the usual chaos – it was amazing just how much noise everyone made). By the time she was actually dips her fingers in, though, she gets over it and worries only about breathing in more, working her fingers faster even as a bit of water rushes in. She finishes quicker than usual, but she finds no problem with that when, even as she catches her breath, her toes curl and her core aches for more, so she bits her lip, and goes again.

* * *

He's tied her to the bed.

He tries to get in touch with his inner-villain as he stalks slowly around the perimeter of his bed, where she's tied down, his arms clasped behind his back and his best evil-doer face on. He stops on the side where her legs are spread-eagled, and stares wordlessly at her nude form for a few seconds. Then he breaks character when he reaches over to his right – her left – and retrieves one among the plethora of pillows there, tucks it under her head and neck.

He doesn't want her neck to hurt later.

She doesn't say anything – which she could if she wants to, she isn't gagged – only raises an eyebrow, which he assumes is her way of telling him "get _on_ with it, BaKaito!" so he reaches in his mini-freezer for what they'll need. He's again grateful – and more than a little surprised – she's actually willing to go through with this.

He reaches into the top nightstand drawer, selects a particular piece of silverware – his favorite – and runs its edge along her neck, around the curve of a small breast, back up to her nipple.

Sure, he knows, spoons aren't exactly erotic, but the metal is cold enough to elicit goosebumps and, as he scrapes the inner curve up and over and down and up and over again her breasts, her nipple stiffens, and she shivers. He scratches slowly down her stomach, and her head tips back much as it can, her wrists tug and struggle against her restraining bonds. He set the cartons atop the bed by her left side, just close enough to feel the chill the emit, just close enough to make her shiver again.

He opens on and his first choice is almost painfully obvious – vanilla, his favorite. He dips his spoon in and pulls out a rather generous scoop – he'd set all the cartons out a while ago so they'd soften – and he plops it right atop her stomach.

She closes her eyes and makes some kind of noise, tries in vain to keep her body still. The ice cream doesn't take very long to melt, over her sides and in her navel and down her stomach. He gets another scoop, plops it lower on her stomach, another, just below her neck. Some splatters on his sheets, and a few dot around her lips, some spills on her breasts. He drops the spoon to the blanket, breaks away for just a moment to yank off his lab coat, scarf and shirt before he lens down and licks a clear trail up her navel to right below an ear, and she squirms and moans oh-so-deliciously. He licks three more trails up her body before she starts bucking and rolling her hips, eager.

When he stands back up he licks his lips, quickly puts away the other cartons because he doesn't need them anymore and there's no sense in letting it go to waste. Then, after her removes his pants, he takes a spoonful of ice cream for himself, kneels on the floor beside the bed.

The way she tenses tells him she knows what's coming.

He braces a hand on either of her thighs, leans forward and licks at her.

She moans, high and loud, shocked by but not distracted by the contrast of the heat of his mouth and the ice cream on his tongue.

She's delicious as always, the musky scent and her taste familiar as ever, but with the ice cream still in his mouth he can't get enough. He thrusts his tongue as far in as he can, rolls it, teases her sensitive pink skin with gentle scrapes of his teeth. Her hips buck even higher roll even higher, try to take in as much as she wants; her cheeks are flushed in her frustration.

After a long, low moan with his mouth still around and his tongue still in her that sends her in hysterics and spasms, he reluctantly removes himself from her, licks the sticky remains from around his lips. She's panting fast and hard, eager and anxious and hungry for more because he hadn't let her finish. He removes his boxers, now, and sits with his knees on either side of her tiny waist, careful to not put weight on her.

Without a second thought, he grabs a handful of ice cream, and with the same hand, _squeezes _her left breast, and he revels in her high scream from the cold touch and the pleasure in it. With the other he dips in the carton only three fingers, and reaches between her legs once more.

She can't kick, much as she tries, with her legs tied. He hands can't find purchase and clench into tight, tighter fists, her nails break skin. He braces his unoccupied arm against her left side, leans down to lick, suck, nibble at her breast and the sweet melted ice cream over it, even as he works his fingers faster and faster inside her until her breathy cries are too much and he's hard to the point of aching.

He hesitates for only a second before he unties her wrists and ankles, and the first thing she does is push off the pillow her head was resting on to the floor. Then she pulls on his arms until he's laying on top of her, and he doesn't hesitate to push himself in.

Her body is moving against his wildly, as if she's abandoned all thought of anything else. Her breaths and moans and whines rush against his ear, and he can't resist the temptation of tasting her. He sucks hard on her neck, bites down roughly and revels in her short scream. He licks at the tang of her sweat, of the little blond hairs that come up when he bites her again, harder. Judging by her even more reckless pace and the spastic clenching she's taken to around him, she's not complaining so he finds another patch of skin and bites there, then another, another until the smell of their sex is overwhelming and she moans as she comes because he's still thrusting, and she struggles to lift her hips in times with his until he comes.

Exhausted, they gasp and take in as much air in their lungs as they can manage. When he looks back to her hands, there's only a little bit of blood around the crescent indents of her palms, but he licks at them, iron and tang, anyway.

Her strained moan has him look down at her again.

He's staring up at him from beneath her lashes, and he can feel her clenching around him still, bucking her hips up excitedly.

He grins as he feels himself harden again. He holds on tight to her thighs, thrusts in deeper; he's ready for another go.

* * *

Len is so painfully awkward.

"I _saw _you," he says.

He's referring, of course, to the little breakfast incident that took place just an hour or so ago.

Apparently, Kaito wasn't the only one to notice how she played with her food.

She sighs as she thinks this through, shuts the freezer door closed, levels Len with a humorless glare. "You just _had _to make our siblingship awkward, didn't you?"

"_You _made it awkward." Len argues back, but she can feel his eyes on the pint in her hand as she tries to remember which drawer Miku-nee had put the silverware in last time she took it upon herself to clean. "What is that?"

"Ice cream." She answers back when she finds a spoon – of _course _it's in the drawer with the container lids.

"You could have told me." He says when she starts for her own room. She turns back.

"It's not important." It feels like a lie. "_Wasn't_." Truth. "B-but it's _still _not." Lie. She frowns, unsure of what to say.

She looks up when she feels a hand on her shoulder, sees Len's face close to hers. "Lying to me is one thing, Rin," his smile is sad, "but don't lie to yourself." He kisses his forehead, then, and leaves, lets her walk to her own room, the confused frown still on her face.

When she gets to her room she leans against the door to close it, slides down to the floor, reaches up to lock it. She pops open her pint, digs the spoon in and shoves the scoop into her mouth and moans, licks the remains of white around her lips.

It's a bit masochistic, when she thinks about it, to revisit the memories of her and Kaito like it will accomplish anything. She moans quietly again with the second spoonful of vanilla in her mouth, with the third, the fourth, fifth. Her knees, up against her chest, are knocking, she's shivering, she can feel her toes curling.

She tears her shirt off of her, yanks off her shorts, her panties, throws her bra across the room. She rubs her thighs together as she takes another bite, brings to memory how he had filled her mouth, the taste of melted ice cream combined with the stickiness of his precum, how he bucked his hips forward and forced her farther down on him. She remembers his grunts and groans and moans at her hollowed cheeks, his musky scent when her nose was pushed against his stomach, when he releases at her deep swallows and constricting throat as she forced down her gag reflex, and at that moment, as she scoops off some vanilla with three fingers and plunges them in her at once as he had to her, she pumps them quickly, wildly, knowing it will get her nowhere because she wants _him _in her. She even tries licking the stickiness off her own fingers, too desperate to be disgusted, but _it's_ _not the same _she knows, _has_ known, and realizes, for the umpteenth time, with burning cheeks and blurring vision and trembling lips. Just memories and fantasies aren't good enough anymore, she wants _him_ in any and every meaning of the word.

"_... don't lie to yourself."_

_That's the problem, Len, _she thinks to her weak pathetic, crybaby self, no longer trying to pleasure herself, just – cradling the half-empty pint against her chest, tears raining and snot dripping into it, into the ice cream that tastes like loss and loneliness, like disappointment, desperation. _I never knew I was._

* * *

He hasn't been able to stop looking at her.

It's something he doesn't notice until he looks back, after that time she had waved a hand in front of him, asked, with genuine worry, if he was okay, because he had been staring at nothing for a half hour. She'd looked confused when he told her he wasn't staring at nothing, but he hadn't elaborated.

Rin wasn't nothing. _Isn't._

He wonders, between breathless gasps for air and relentless thrusts, when he had last admired her: eyes half-lidded and darkened, lashes fluttering; bottom lip caught between even white teeth, torn and almost bleeding; head dipped back, her tiny shoulders tensed, her neck tastefully arched; the flush across her cheeks that reached the tip of her elfin ears; her golden hair, tousled and tangled, a few stray strands stuck to her forehead, her cheeks, at the corner of her lips.

He stares at her, and something about the way her eyes shut tight and her lips purse when he _slams_ into her makes him want to drive her insane with pleasure.

He wonders why he's never noticed how her head turns and her lips part and her body ripple when she's panting and close, the wrinkle of her brows when she moans.

He flips her on her stomach, takes her fast and hard, hands at her tiny hips to pull her closer to him with each rough thrust. Her head is turned, cheek pushed against the pillow. Her tiny fingers curl into the pillowcase, and his grip on her tightens. Her short-straight lashes flutter, and he's thrusts deeper into her. Her lips tremble in time with her body' shivers, she clenches around him as she finishes, and just like that, he's done, and beyond exhausted.

It doesn't occur to him at that moment to question how he can't go for another round, when usually they can go two or sometimes even three without a problem.

She sits up after he pulls out and lifts himself of her, and he can't help wondering about the tears in her eyes before she turns on her side with her back to him. But he doesn't ask.

He doesn't ask only because they're not really _together, _an understanding they'd come to a while ago, before this had even started, and he's sure she'd tel him if it was really important; they still live with each other, and even if he doesn't love her like _that_, he still cares for her.

He wonders why the words ring false, even in his head.

* * *

She can _feel _his eyes on her.

Judging by Len and Gumi-nee's constant glances to her, they've noticed it, too.

She mumbles weakly about her feet getting tired and walks over to the nearest bench, sits down. Len and Gumi-nee look at each other, but her brother calls out to her that they'll meet her after they look through the video games and pushes his torn almost-official girlfriend with him. When they're gone she sighs and scans for a trash to deposit her ice cream in – vanilla, orange, even chocolate, it all tastes like bitter tears and something like heartbreak.

She feels a large, strong arm wrap around her shoulders, and automatically she relaxes against it, wonders if Gakupo-nii had caught up with them early.

"Ga-"

"Are you okay?"

Her eyes are wide when she, slowly, turns her head, sees hair short and blue where she'd expected long and purple. She sees him frown and his lips move, his face dawn with the realization that she had mistaken him for another.

She wonders if the disappointment in his eyes is her seeing what she wants to see.

"So, I... see you're back to orange." He nods to the cone in her hand, referring to the last time he'd taken her, Len and Gumi-nee to the mall, when she'd gotten vanilla, kept shooting looks over at him while she flicked her tongue at it – a long while before she'd broken down over how much she didn't really have him. "Single scoop, huh? That's new."

She wants to shove her ice cream in his face right over his stupid straight nose. She wants to break down and cry all over his oh-so-precious lab coat. She wants to give a glare deadly enough to make even Meiko proud. She wants to do _something_ other than toss the cone in the trash next to her (how did she not see that before?) and turn deliberately away, but that's exactly what she does.

"Rin?"

She can't remember the last time she'd heard him actually call her by name.

"Rin."

His hand reaches out to her chin to turn her head back to him, and his scent is familiar, at once comforting and heartwrenching.

"I used to be able to talk to you."

He's not quite close enough for his breath to hit her mouth, but at their close distance, she can almost taste him.

"I want to know what's wrong with you."

His eyes show only utmost sincerity.

"Because,"

She can't help the hope that fills her chest-

"I still care about you."

-nor the painful emptiness with those five words.

A slender hand grabs hers-

"What do you say we look through that clothes store over there, Rin-chan? They have a lot of cute dresses – just you and me."

-and she doesn't hesitate to let Gumi-nee lead her away, from Kaito, from the loss of what she never had, from the feelings she still denies to feel.

She makes for the dressing room the second she steps foot in the store, lets Gumi-nee follow her into a stall she quickly locks behind her. She stares back at her reflection in the full-length mirror for all of a second before she breaks down, and Gumi-nee is quick to comfort her.

All the while she thinks about the expression on Kaito's face when she and Gumi-nee hurried away. She wishes for words to describe it, but she can't describe it because she doesn't know what to make of it.

* * *

He sneaks into her room that night.

Something is wrong, he knows – _has known_ – and it's about time to find out what the problem is.

He remembers the wave of disappointment that'd washed over him when Rin had mistaken him for Gakupo, the shock he'd seen in her eyes when she heard _him_, saw _him_, instead, as if she would never expect _him_, Kaito, to comfort her, listen to her problems, all the things _he_, not Gakupo, used to do for her. Used to, until they-

Until they-

Slowly, he brings his hand to his face, breathes out a silent sigh. Of _course _she wouldn't have expected him to ask her what was wrong.

He sits down on the edge of her bed, and she shifts but he doesn't panic.

"I know you're faking," he says, but he says it in a loud whisper. "You're not snoring," he explains when her even, deep breaths pause.

"I don't snore," she grumbles into her pillow, and he smiles, thinks they may be able to work this out after all.

"Yes, you do," he says, sets a hand down on the mattress and leans closer to her. "A little snore, so quiet I can't hear it unless I'm listening for it. It's cute."

He waits, but her back is to him as it had been since he'd opened the door. Remembering this, he quickly glances back to make sure he'd closed it this time, then turns back to her; all good.

"Rin, I-" don't know what to say "-want-want to be there for you. You can still come to me, talk about what's bothering you – I'll listen."

She's quiet, and he doesn't know what to make of that. He waits for a few seconds, then a few more, a few more.

Nothing.

With a defeated sigh, he moves to leave – and sees her sit up.

Her head ducks when she turns, and she crawls to him, slowly – but not seductively – hesitantly, unsure. When she settles, she plays with the collar of her too-long pajama sweater, and, as he turns to face her more directly, he wants to sigh with relief.

That, at least, he's familiar with: she's nervous, and trying to word what she wants to say.

He waits again, patiently, tries to smile encouragingly at her, comfortingly, but he knows he wears it oddly, knows that it probably betrays how awkward he really feels.

She licks her lips, but only when she glances to her right, down at her polka-dotted pants and to her right again, before she looks back to him does he relax and wait, again, for her next words, for her to thoroughly explain to him what's wrong.

She doesn't.

But he gets the gist of it, after she throws her tiny self at him, hard enough that he almost falls off the bed, and kisses him with her thin, very soft and very, very pink lips. He gets the gist of it when she parts his lips with her wet, rough tongue and plunges it in, tastes him, traces her tongue over curve and crevice, rolls her tongue against his. He gets the gist of it, but he doesn't move because he knows, as she surely does, that she might not get another chance.

… _Might _not?

Before he can ponder that thought further, she pulls away with a wet _pop! _and crawls back out of arm's distance. He wonders at the coldness he feels on the thighs she shuffled off of, the emptiness in the arms he'd purposely held back from holding her so he wouldn't give her the wrong impression. His mind is racing, and everything and nothing is making sense, but all he says is, "Oh."

With a look she gives him that seems to say "_that's _what's wrong," she turns back away, settles down to sleep – or, at least, to pretend she will.

He stumbles when he stands back up, after a second or two. When he opens the door, he looks back, opens his mouth, tries to think of something to say – but he can't. He closes his mouth, turns away, closes the door, and he pretends he can't hear her muffled sobs through the wood.

* * *

"Don't understand why you're so upset," Meiko says as the shot glass is refilled, red eyes holding her gaze steadily. "Hetero sex is _so_ disappointing."

She frowns at that. "What do you-" her eyes widen. "_You _and-"

"What's wrong with it?"

"Nothing, just – wasn't expecting that."

Meiko shrugs, like it's no big deal – which, okay, it kind of isn't, but, wow.

"Wow."

The night is pretty quiet when Rin settles down to sleep. It's warm, too, with Meiko holding her, and the alcohol mixed with Meiko's smell is really homey. That's the third night after her confrontation with Kaito. She can't believe avoidance is this easy.

"Why _don't_ you stay with Miku?"

"Because _no one _is scared of Miku."

"Intimidation?" Meiko takes a shot, refills the glass again. "Why don't you stay with Luka, then?"

"You're scarier," she admits, almost-sheepishly, "and way cooler than Luka."

Meiko pauses, cup back on the table, before blood-red eyes roll. "All you had to do was ask."

The _sake _burns down her throat, and, as she chokes it down and gasps for air, she's not surprised by the smug upturn of thick, red lips.

"What did you learn?" the cup is being refilled again, and she turns up her nose when it's offered to her.

"Don't drink."

Meiko's laugh is high and just this side of shrill, she notices. Meiko probably does, too, because that's her last drink for the night.

"Frustration's a kick in the pants." Meiko murmurs, and she's at once again surprised and comforted by the smooth warmth of Meiko's arms around her; she always gets cold at night.

"Please. Like I don't know you sneak out after I fall asleep." She's woken up in the middle of the night cold even with the cocoon of blankets wrapped around her, the loneliness of sleeping alone a freezing hollowness inside her that will probably never go away.

She easily feels Meiko shifting closer to her, and she feels a bit ashamed for saying it like that, for saying it at all. That's the fifth night after her confrontation with Kaito.

For the next five days she spends cooped up in Meiko's room, Meiko is always there when she wakes up in the middle of the night.

On the eleventh day, she decides she's had enough of stale air and the smell of her old laundry. She leaves Meiko's room and returns to her own, partly to get more clothes from her drawers.

He's in her bed when she walks in.

She realizes, a bit belatedly, that maybe, just probably, she was going to have to see him sooner or later; they still _live _together, after all, and work, too, even though they haven't gotten any new songs recently.

She's frozen by her open door, only because her legs won't listen to her commands to run away. When she lets go of the breath she didn't know she was holding, his head snaps up from the pillow it was buried in, turns to her.

A smile grows on his face.

She still hasn't moved.

"I've thought about it," he says, turning so he's sitting on the edge of the bed, now, instead of in the middle, "it took me a few days, though. And when I did, I wanted to tell you, but, uh, Len-kun told me you were in Meiko's room. And then you never came out."

There's a long pause, a long silence, that she thinks is somewhat expectant. She somehow manages control of her body to get her shoulders to jerk in a sad attempt of a shrug.

"Did she turn you, too?"

A long run of snarky responses speed through her mind, among which are "She wouldn't have to," and "There are plenty of guys closer to my age," along with some expletives, but all she can hear is her numb mouth say, "I don't think hetero sex is disappointing."

He gives a laugh at that, half-awkward and, she thinks, half-relieved. She's not sure how to feel about that.

"Well, there's that, I guess." he says, and he looks down. It's quiet for another several seconds, and she takes the time to cross her room, sit an arm's length from him. He takes a deep breath, but she doesn't wait expectantly for his next words, for what he feels, until after he licks at his upper lip and glances at the ceiling.

But, instead of hearing what he has to say, she feels his large, calloused hand on her upper arm, and a firm – but somehow gentle – pull. Her body jerks close to him, until his face meets hers, and his dry, cracked lips envelops hers.

His hands, dry but somehow soft, cup around her face, thumbing at her heating cheeks. His tongue maps out the inside of her mouth just like hers had his, and, his moan, his eyes – closed as if in pleasure – the feel of his rough hands, the sigh he exhales into her mouth, steals the air from her lungs. She's just left sitting there awkwardly with her mouth half-open, unable to breath until he pulls away. She watches him, eyes a bit wide, as she catches her breath, and all she can say is, "Oh."

"Yeah." His smile speaks volumes, and some crazy, hyper, (fluttering,) nonsense feeling in the pit of her stomach makes her want to wipe it off his face. And, somehow, her mind and body both seem to agree that the only logical way to do that is to kiss him back. So she does.

His fingers' touch is hot, blazing, like fire – much hotter than Meiko's parental arms around her – that night.

…

He meets her eyes across the living room, in the midst of the chaos the rest of their pseudo family creates.

She's already looking at him, eyes bright with love and wide with promises of forever. The coy curve of her grin spells mischief, and she doesn't waste a second to stand, stalk her way out the room with still-developing swinging hips – a tease, a presentation, a reward.

A reward he's still not sure he deserves.

The entire remainder of the room is occupied, distracted, but even if they weren't, he wouldn't hesitate to follow, stalk her out.

When he reaches his room, it is tense with longing, elation, love.

There is a strong, undeniable romance between them. They both know this.

He kisses her when he removes her clothes, as she does when she removes his; he kisses her when he feels every inch of skin he can reach, as she does when she feels every inch of his; he kisses her when he finally begins to please her, as she does when she begins to please him.

Kissing, he'd told her once, is something only lovers do.

What, she'd asked, are we, then?

Now, now, he can look at her, smile, and say, We _are _lovers.

There is a strong, undeniable romance between them.

And, they were wrong before. He can hear it, smell it, taste it, see it, _feel _it, just as much as she can, that this passion-

"I love you."

"Get _on_ with it, BaKaito."

-is much more intense, much more real.

"_Fine_. I love you, too. Sentimental bum."

And they wouldn't give it all up for the world-

"Ha, you know me."

-because she's his entire world, just as he is hers.

"_Mmm_, love you."

"I know, Rin."

That's life.

* * *

**Hello again, hope you enjoyed your read! I'd love any feedback for this (I'm not entirely sure I capture the Vocaloid family very accurately), if you dears wouldn't mind.  
**

**Also, my poll! If you could spare a few seconds of your time to vote, I would very much appreciate it!**

**Now then dearies, if you has any questions, comments, concerns, constructive criticism, etc., please review or send a message and I'll get back to you when I can.**

**Ja Ne =D!**


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